I think I can write, but what do I know?
These words make sense coming out of my own head
But do they understand me, enough to tell the tales
That I have so mistakenly trampled on in their own making.
Formed out of nowhere, the mystery that is a thought
Delicately hangs in the air until
Taking a solid shape that is only solid to my own eyes,
Do you see the same thing I do?
Or is the solid shape only a sound to you
A quick sound, in a hushed tone
As the fire dies down and gently
Stirs with the remnants of wild passion.
The flowers that bloom are the work of artists
They are formed by the words
That were determined long before you knew
What you were going to say.
And the mystery remains as such…